


Sing to the Storm

by gaysushiroll



Category: Lackadaisy
Genre: 1920s, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Antisemitism, Asexuality, Crimes & Criminals, Dancing and Singing, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, F/F, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Flappers, Gangsters, Guns, Homophobia, Jazz Age, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Muteness, Mystery, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prohibition, Protectiveness, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Speakeasies, Unrequited, Work In Progress, Workplace Relationship, but at least there’s pretty songs, in which mordecai is in over his head and people die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 09:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14234442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaysushiroll/pseuds/gaysushiroll
Summary: ~Just tell the world for me: My soul's done set me freeThat's the song I'll sing till they put me under the clay~—————————————————As Marigold’s freshly appointed singer, Evelyn Moore does her best to provide for herself and for her small niece, but is her cover good enough to fool the speakeasy’s most dangerous gangsters? Or will Mordecai Heller’s cold green eyes uncover the falsehoods and secrets she’s been hiding for so long...





	Sing to the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> welp it’s finally happening! i’ve started rewriting my old fanfiction.net fic, “nightline”. this story will be told from two different perspectives, evelyn’s and mordecai’s. don’t hold your breath for romance cuz mordecai’s a prick
> 
> thanks for checkin out my fic, comments are much appreciated~~

E V E L Y N

The first time she’d stepped into the Maribel hotel, she was actually overwhelmed. The reception hall was a sight to behold, especially to eyes unused to glamor or charm of any kind.

Every surface was adorned with floral patterns, their intricacy accentuated by the reflections cast down from the golden chandeliers. And as if that wasn’t enough, it was bustling with people. They were squeezing through imposing columns, the clinks and thumps of their shoes against the cold marble floor resonating through the walls, as they were trying to get to the real jewel of the building: the Marigold room.

It was, simply put, the most brilliant place Evelyn had ever seen. So bright and warm it could have put the sun to shame. Though the heat might have just been due to the inebriated mass of individuals shamelessly writhing across the polished dance floor. Needless to say, Evelyn wasn’t part of that mess. She knew better than to drink. After all, she wasn’t really there on a pleasure trip to begin with.

On a sparkling stage, showered in light and surrounded by a semi-conscious audience, sat the lounge band. Evelyn eyed them carefully as they were preparing their instruments. One member specifically, the pianist, caught Evelyn’s gaze, and smiled.

She was beautiful, Evelyn thought, with her plump lips and upturned nose, but her skin looked strange. She had big, pale, rosy spots sprinkled on her otherwise dark skin, covering her left eye, her neck, her shoulders, and even the very tip of her nose. She was a black canvas stained with speckles of bright paint. When her slender fingers started dancing on top of the piano keys, her eyes looked awake and full of energy, and she was hypnotizing. Evelyn watched her tuck a strand of short hair behind her white ear.

The second time she’d visited the Maribel hotel, she’d just landed a job. Her own ears were ringing with names she forgot seconds after first hearing them, and her feet were hurting inside her fancy new shoes, and her thoughts were swirling and mixing traitorously in her head. _Am I doing the right thing? Is this going to backfire on me? What have I gotten myself into?_ These questions scratched and tore at the walls of her mind, but she did her best to ignore them, as she started to vigorously shake another stranger’s hand.

She could tell something was different about this one, though. He was a heavyset man, probably in his early to mid-forties, judging by the look of his prominently wrinkled forehead and abundance of grey in his carefully slicked back hair. While his appearance in itself was by and large unimpressive, there was just something about his eyes… Evelyn couldn’t help but sense something darker lurking beneath his friendly grin.

Her small hand was still firmly held in his iron grip when he finally presented himself.

“I’m Asa Sweet. I run this crummy place by night. What’s your name, darlin’?”

“Evelyn Moore, sir. Good to meet you,” she smiled, finally retracting her hand from his.

“Evelyn, huh? Well, I’m looking forward to hearing you sing, Evelyn.”

There was something greedy and dangerous floating over his words. Almost as dangerous as the looks the man behind Sweet was throwing her way. Prominent, square jaws and smooth cheekbones framed his long nose and sharp eyes. She reciprocated his stare for one second, two, three. _Try me_ , her warm brown eyes challenged.

There was something undeniably familiar in his cold, green gaze, guarded behind his round spectacles. She finally looked back at Asa, putting a stop to their little staring contest.

“I hope I live up to your expectations, sir.”

And with that they bid each other goodbye, and the crowd swallowed Asa and his silent guardian up again.

She wouldn’t get to see her boss, or those dark emerald eyes for a while after that.

Nonetheless, her life had been quite eventful up until that point, starting with her first day on the job.

She made sure to arrive just a bit earlier than she needed to, so she’d have time to chat with the other band members. She’d been properly introduced to them the day before, when she spoke to Asa, but Evelyn’s understanding of their characters ran no deeper than their names. For what she chose to participate in, her relationship with those people was everything.

When she arrived, however, the only person to greet her was Clara, the pianist with patchy skin and lively eyes. She was like a beacon, energetically waving her over from the top of the stage. As she cut her way through the usual sea of people congregating in the Marigold, Evelyn thought about what to say to this strange woman, how to break the ice.

But before she even realized it, she was being pulled up onto the podium, and all the jokes and questions that were itching at the tip of her tongue dissolved, and she let the warm glow of the speakeasy lights hover over her face, her arms, her new black dress. Clara seemed to hold her for a second more than necessary, but before Evelyn could remark how soft her hand was, she’d already started talking.

“So, early bird, huh?”

“It’s… 8pm...”

Evelyn was so concentrated on the way her thumb brushed over Clara’s palm when the woman slipped from her grip, that she didn’t notice her roll her eyes.

“You know what I mean. I’m usually the first one here. Since it looks like we’re on the same page, we’re probably gonna have to fight it out to prove our dominance.”

“I guess I’ll just have to never leave, then. I’ll live here forever. That’ll show you.”

Clara laughed, skipping to her seat, next to the grand piano.

“Well, shit. Defeated already. C’mon, alpha-bird, wanna help me choose the first song?”

The piano was a gorgeous piece, brilliantly white, and trimmed with gold. Clara placed the sheets on the music stand, hiding a proud marigold carving behind the confusing amalgam of notes. After flipping through a few pages, Evelyn pointed at a song, and Clara gave a low appreciative whistle.

“Well alright, boss lady. Your wish is something, something.”

Clara closed her eyes, raising a hand in ritualistic solemnity.

“If anybody has any objections, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

“I don’t know what I’m objecting to, but you’re damn right I won’t keep silent!” a masculine voice declared passionately from behind them.

A rather young-looking man, whom Evelyn absently recognized as David, the bass player, had appeared on stage, with the rest of the band in tow.

“You lost your voting privileges when you decided to keep us waiting, Davy boy.”

“This is misandry!”

“Don’t worry, if you’re so hurt, we’ll let you pick the next song,” Evelyn said, smirking.

“Alright, alright, cut the chatter and get to work,” Clara replied, giving Evelyn a sly wink before focusing all her atrention on exercising every key.

Evelyn liked the band members. They weren’t especially inquisitive, they minded their own business in laid-back camaraderie, and they seemed to effectively melt into music, losing their senses of individuality in it. She slightly envied them for that. She wished she could shed the skin of her identity sometimes, as well.

Maybe there was something she could learn from them, after all.

She let out a sigh, started humming to herself as she watched the crew get ready.

  
When she turned her eyes back towards the audience, she was certain they had multiplied tenfold in the span of only a few minutes. She was in awe of how successful the Marigold was, and she was glad she didn’t have to hide that from anyone. The band members most likely got used to it all, but they had been as new to these kinds of glamor and crowds and fanciness as her at some point. They understood. Probably.

If they didn’t, she neither noticed, nor cared.

“Alright, ready when you are, Miss Moore,” she heard someone softly say behind her.

She gulped, cleared her throat. She wasn’t nervous. She was just... Anticipating. Anticipating bad outcomes. Like her voice faltering mid-verse, a sudden need to hiccup, a sneeze, just her voice being sub-par in general. She felt her hand subconsciously fiddle with her necklace.

  
_I’m being silly_ , she heard her own voice echo in her mind.

Everyone was in varying degrees of drunk, at this point, anyway. If she should slip up, only she would be able to notice.

What was important was that she could observe them, shamelessly, unbothered.

After adjusting her microphone, she looked behind her one last time, to her new team’s encouraging smiles, and nodded to herself, with new-found determination.

_I used to be my Mother's baby,_

_When I was near, my Dad went wild_

The crowd of people was a tumultuous ocean, and when Evelyn began singing, she saw them for what they were: waves, crashing against each other in an indistinguishable, nihilistic chaos.

_Once I was everybody's baby,_

_But right now I'm lonesome as can be_

She was an eye, floating way up along with the lyrics, resting between the chandeliers. Her gaze scanned the people beneath her with terrifying omniscience. With slight surprise, she recognized none other Mayor Miller’s secretary lounging over the bar, knocked out in a most inappropriate manner.

_Won't someone hear my plea_

_And take a little chance with me_

Somewhere in a far-off corner of the speakeasy, and old duchess’ wrinkly and heavily jeweled hand was caressing an inebriated young man’s cheek, and Evelyn had to abstain from an amused smile. So _scandalous_!

_I miss the cuddles and joys,_

_I miss my dog and toys_

Names and faces and bodies, they were all a nondescript blur, a tangled ball of yarn Evelyn had to unravel and file in her mental archive. To be used later, she wrote on top of the image of an influential gang member’s son chugging cheap whiskey.

_The way I feel today, I'd like to pass away_

_Because I’m nobody’s baby now._

Soon enough, she realized she reveled in her new job. Being in front of so many strangers didn’t put her off in the slightest, not anymore. On the contrary, their ignorance was intoxicating, and putting names to each of their faces filled her with delight and a slight feeling of power.

She often caught herself forgetting what she was there for to begin with. Remembering felt like being drenched by a bucket of cold water. Worried thoughts cradled themselves in her ears, a permanent reminder that she was singing in a vipers’ nest.

Or was she the viper?

She tried not to think too much about it.

Nevertheless, she kept on enjoying her job, as well as using it as an opportunity to learn a few other useful things.

Such as the fact that she was working alongside all kinds of flavors of dangerous people. It didn’t take long for Clara to spill every detail she had on Asa’s associates, and it took an even shorter time for Davy to join in on the gossip, all three of them taking sips of their preferred poisons at a small, round table they were lucky enough to find vacant.

“Sweet’s big cheese around here, so he has his own lackeys and stuff.”

Evelyn followed the direction in which Clara was (not so) subtly pointing, and noticed a raucous couple doing their best to get on the barkeeper’s nerves.

“See those two fellas over there? The beefy guy and the hat lady?”

Evelyn nodded, a bit absently, as she was devoting all her attention to inspecting the pair. The man was, for lack of better words, built like a brick shithouse. He was big, even with his figure slouched over the bar top, the sight of his broad shoulders and bare, muscly arms was quite impressive. The woman herself was indeed wearing a hat, paired with a very fashionable suit. Evelyn could have easily confused her for a harmlessly cold and professional business woman, if not for the ferocious, ruthless aura surrounding her, which one could notice from 20 feet away. She was wildly beautiful though. Different. Evelyn still had her gaze fixed on the unruly bun bouncing at the back of the woman’s neck, when Clara started talking again.

“Yeah, that’s the Savoy siblings. Nasty pair a’ torpedoes. I hear they used to hijack Marigold’s shipments before Sweet decided they weren’t worth the hassle and took ‘em in himself.”

“Well I hear that they’re well versed in black magic and voodoo,” Davy piped in.

Evelyn gave an audible snort, turning towards the man.

“You can’t actually believe that.”

He shrugged, his expression as serious as Evelyn had ever seen it, and probably as serious as he was capable of being.

“Look, all I’m sayin’ is… The reception _does_ always receive complaints about strange sounds coming from their room. I, myself, have seen really questionable folk go in. I hear not all of ‘em come out. And who knows how many people they’ve bumped off, sacrificial ritual or not… Those guys are freaky.”

“Serafine especially. There’s just something about her eyes… Gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

Clara’s comment brought a weird silence upon the three, leaving Evelyn mulling over their words.

“All that said, though, I think Davy’s voodoo cult theory’s pure baloney,” Clara quickly added.

Davy’s face squished into an exaggerated pout, and the pianist stuck her tongue out at him.

“So, they’re Marigold’s embalmers? They seem like a bit of a wild card.”

“Well, they are. But Sweet has enough sense not to leave ‘em to their own devices.”

“That’s what Heller’s here for,” Clara cut in. “He’s the one really calling the shots when he’s with the Savoys.”

“Heller?”

“Mordecai Heller. If his name itself doesn’t creep you out, you’ll have an unpleasant surprise if you meet the man himself.”

Davy shuddered in his seat, rubbing his arms up and down his body, as if struck by a terrible cold.

“Went on an elevator ride with him once. His gaze literally feels like an icy shower. I don’t recommend it.”

“Wait, I still don’t know who you’re talking about. Is he here?”

“Oh, I don’t expect that high hat would actually enjoy hanging around the likes of regular people. He’s probably wherever Sweet is. Guy’s a damn spook,” Clara said, her expression turning sour as she downed her third shot of bourbon.

Evelyn wasn’t quite as satisfied with their answers as she would’ve liked, so she pressed on.

“What’s he look like, this boogeyman-for-hire?”

Clara and Davy shared a silent look, before the woman finally spoke.

“You sound like you wanna go up to him or something,” she said with a hint of disdain.

“And you sound jealous,” Evelyn grinned. “Maybe I just want to know whom I should avoid.”

After a bit of consideration, Mordecai Heller’s portrait started piecing itself together, word by word, as the details spilled out of Evelyn’s companions’ mouths.

“Dark hair.”

“Big nose.”

“Sort of pale.”

“Kinda tall.”

“Dressed to kill.”

“Probably trained to kill, too…”

“Has sort of a, uh, _saturnine_ behavior,” Davy declared, having obviously been waiting for a while to show off the crowning jewel of his vocabulary.

“Yeah, also, he speaks really posh, like.”

“Wears glasses.”

“He has… His eyes are truly gorgeous, though. They’re really green… Freakishly intense.”

Both Davy and Evelyn looked at her, trying (and failing) to hide their amusement. Clara averted her gaze, a flush visible on her traitorously pale patches of skin.

“What? I write my own songs, you know. I take my inspiration where I can get it.”

She poured herself another shot. Shrugging, Evelyn followed suit.

“From what you’ve told me, he must look like a literal ghost.”

“From what we’ve told you, you should walk in the opposite direction of any person looking even remotely like him.”

“So I’m to permanently live in fear of _gorgeous green eyes_?”

Evelyn swooned, bringing a dramatic hand to her forehead, wistfully looking away from Clara.

“Why, I’m not sure I’ll be able to resist such charms!”

“Trust me, he’s got as much charm as a dead squirrel,” Davy said, rolling his eyes.

“Difference being the squirrel’d make for much better conversation,” Clara added.

“I thought you’ve never spoken to him face to face, Clara.”

“I haven’t. But word travels ‘round.”

Leaning forward on her elbows, Clara took one of Evelyn’s hands in her own, a somber veil falling over her expression.

“They say he’s been offing people since he was a kid. That one certain scuffle left a bit of stray lead in his head, and that’s the reason he’s such a cold, heartless, killing machine.”

“Well that’s just meaningless bushwash.”

“Maybe,” the woman admitted, but her voice remained thoughtful.

Shifting her weight to the back of the chair again, she wordlessly swished the remaining drops of whiskey in her glass. Then, without a word of warning, she picked up Evelyn’s glass and downed it, a smug smirk painting her lips.

“But, if you want my opinion, our local grim reaper has a little helper, and that’s Mordecai Heller.”

But before Evelyn could even think of a response, she was interrupted by the feeling of a hand tapping her shoulder. She turned round in her seat, facing a nervous young man whom she very barely recognized as the receptionist.

“I-Uhm. Hi. Sorry. Are you by any chance Miss Moore?” he asked, awkwardly fumbling with his uniform collar.

She nodded once, confusion pulling her eyebrows down into a knot.

“A woman called asking for you. At the reception. She, uh, she said your… Your niece is missing? Again?”

She cursed under her breath, standing up in urgency. Clara and Davy followed suit, their faces ridden with alarm.

“Yes, thank you, uhm… Frankie, was it?”

She didn’t wait for the boy to respond, instead addressing her companions once more:

“I’m sorry, guys and gals, but I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this party short,” she said as she pulled on her coat.

“Are you… How are you so calm? The kid is missing, aren’t you at least a little bit worried?” Davy asked, torn between being surprised and being puzzled.

She scoffed, and indeed, when she answered, her voice was edged with annoyance rather than anxiety:

“Oh, she does this all the time. I already know where she is. She just enjoys tormenting me,” then her tone softened, and she gave a shy smile, putting on her cloche hat. “She’s a smart egg. She’s just… A little bit restless, ever since we moved into St. Louis. Don’t worry, I know how to handle it.”

And with that, she took off, leaving the three people behind, the rest of their questions hanging off their tongues.

 

* * *

 

 

She slammed her apartment door closed, and didn’t try to keep her steps from turning into ominous stomps as she headed down the hallway. She only faltered in order to take off her beige duster coat and passive-aggressively throw it on the edge of the living room sofa. She didn’t stop when she reached the bedroom door, either, instead pushing it open, angered words rolling out of her mouth unfiltered:

“Viola Marjorie Moore, you better get out here and explain yourself this instant!”

Her shrill voice was only met with silence, and her eyes were greeted by an empty room, bed as messy as she’d left it.

“This isn’t funny, I’m seriously cross with you!”

She waited for a moment, ears keen on distinguishing any signs of presence in the room.

The blasted little thing is toying with me, the woman thought, and gave a frustrated huff as she went ahead and pulled all the covers off the bed, turned over every piece of odd clothing strewn about the room, looked under every piece of furniture.

Now, she was looking at a mess even bigger than before, and still no signs of her young niece.

Alright. Maybe she should have been panicking earlier, a little bit.

She became aware of her breaths coming out in shorter, more sporadic bursts, as small, yet noticeable twinges of fear started to take form in her chest.

She all but ran out into the living room, giving it the same treatment as the bedroom, calling out the child’s name in barely-concealed desperation. She straightened her back, a shaky hand reaching towards the bulky phone on the end table-

But then she let out a surprised yelp, startled by the feeling of tiny, grubby fingers sticking themselves in her sides, wiggling in a tickling motion. She growled menacingly before turning around, realization dissipating any trail of fear, replacing it with annoyance once more.

The little girl smiled cheekily, arms held open wide. Evelyn was _seething_.

“ _You_! You frightened me, you little menace!”

And then she proceeded to curse herself mentally for instantly swooping Viola in a reluctantly relieved hug. The kid held onto Evelyn, her small head buried in the crook of her aunt’s neck. The woman patted her soft, dark brown curls.

“How many times must we scare Mrs. Adler before we give her a heart attack, hm?” she asked softly, her words muffled by the child’s hair.

Evelyn tried to keep from smiling as she felt Viola’s face scrunch up at the mention of the grumpy old woman.

“Yes, I know you don’t like her. I know she’s not the friendliest of women, Vi, but you have to trust me, alright? _I_ trust her to take care of _you_.”

She pulled back to look at Viola. _Her expression is too serious, too sober for an eight year old_ , she thought sadly. Her chubby, freckled cheeks were those of a happy, well-fed child, but her big brown doe eyes were off-putting, as if behind them hid a sense of maturity that could only define someone familiar with loss.

They were both all too familiar with loss.

  
Evelyn cupped Viola’s face gently, forcing her to look up at her aunt.

“Don’t do this again. Please.”

And the child nodded, making no effort to disguise the still lingering sense of mischief and rebellion from her smirk. Evelyn groaned inwardly (and slightly outwardly, as well).

“Well. I suppose I’ll just have to tell Mrs. Adler to update her defenses. Come, enough fooling about, it’s time for bed.”

In truth, Evelyn could have taken away Viola’s spare key, but she didn’t want to risk inspiring an even bolder adventurous impulse, and lose her little niece in St. Louis. Mrs. Adler was a god send, offering the advantage of both living close to their apartment building, and being lonely enough to accept Viola in her care. But Evelyn also knew the old lady was too used to solitude to provide engaging company, especially for a hyperactive child such as Viola, and, although she would never openly admit it, she didn’t mind all that much that Viola snuck out, not as long as she came home, and didn’t wander about the shadier parts of the neighborhood. She wanted her safe, yes, but not imprisoned.

Plus. She admired the child’s ingenuity, when it came to escaping from Mrs. Adler’s grasp. She wasn’t about to encourage the girl, but she knew how to appreciate craftiness and cunning.

She carried the little one to their shared bedroom, and carefully laid her on the soft sheets that she left in disarray a bit earlier. In the warm glow of their nightstand lamp, Evelyn started to shed her work clothes.

“Why don’t you pick a book while I change, hm?”

Of course, she wasn’t expecting a reply from the small child. For a long time now their conversations were more of a puzzle made out of Evelyn’s worn out words and Viola’s missing pieces. She was a mute. She hadn’t always been that way, but the fact was that silence was the only thing coming out of her mouth since her parents’ death.

Of course Evelyn was concerned. Of course she took Viola to every doctor she could afford. But they all said the same thing: Viola could talk if she wished. Why she didn’t have that wish, none of them could say. Evelyn knew she couldn’t replace her sister, but she tried her damnedest to ensure her child wanted for nothing. It broke her heart that, despite everything she did, the girl still said nothing. Not to her, not to Mrs. Adler, not at school and not to the doctors. She remained peacefully quiet.

Having donned her night gown, Evelyn rejoined her niece beneath the blankets. The girl was clutching something at her chest.

“Winnie-the-Pooh?” Evelyn asked, a bit surprised. “I’ve read you this a thousand times. Didn’t know we still had it…”

Viola pushed the book into the woman’s hands, then wiggled her way under her arm, her head resting on Evelyn’s chest.

“Aren’t you growing a bit old for it?” Evelyn grumbled, and laughed slightly at Viola’s subsequent pout.

Looking at her tiny frame, the way it was curled around her, it reminded Evelyn of a baby chick nestling into the safety of his mother’s feathers. She smiled fondly, pinching her niece’s nose playfully, before settling into her role as a narrator.

“Here is Edward Bear,” she began softly, “coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump…”

After a while, when she finally felt Viola’s breaths dissolve into blissful little snores, she remembered who all her life was for.

She needed the child more than the child needed her, after all.


End file.
